a«^-» 



--»«»»*»» 



u 



ill 



y 




Class 



Book- 

Copyright^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 



TOBOGGANNING ON PARNASSUS 



TOBOGGANNING 
ON PARNASSUS 

By 
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS 




Garden City New York 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1911 






ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 



COPYRIGHT, igil, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1905, by KEPPLER & SCHWARZMANN 

COPYRIGHT, 1905, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1907, 1908, by THE CENTURY COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, I907, I908, by D. APPLETON & COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1907, 1908, I910, by LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1907, 1908, 1909, 1910, 191 1, by 

MAIL AND EXPRESS COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1908, by CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1908, by P. F. COLLIER & SON 

COPYRIGHT, 1909, by ASSOCIATED SUNDAY MAGAZINES COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, IQIO, by BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY 



v" 



V 



©CLA297516 



TO 

BERT LESTON TAYLOR 

GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, 
BUT FRIEND 



If that these vagrant verses make 

One heart more glad; if they but bring 

A single smile, for that One's sake 
I should be satisfied to sing. 

As Locker said, in phrasing fitter, 

Pleased if but One should like the twitter. 

If I have eased one heart of pain; 

If I have made one throb or thrill; 
My labour has not been in vain. 

My work has not been all for nil, 
If only One, from Maine to Kansas, 
Shall say "I like his simple stanzas." 

If but a solitary voice 

Should say "These verses polyglot 

Are not so bad," I should rejoice; 

But oh, my publishers would not! 
* * * * * 

And I, though shy and unanointed, 
Should be a little disappointed. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Us Poets 3 

Rubber-Stamp Humour 4 

The Simple Stuff 6 

" Carpe Diem " or Cop The Day . . 7 

That for Money! 8 

Xanthias Jollied 10 

Horace the Wise 12 

Jealousy 13 

To Be Quite Frank 15 

R. S. V. P 17 

Advice ......... 19 

When Horace "Came Back" ... 22 

Nix on the Fluffy Stuff 26 

Catullus, Considerable Kisser . . . 28 

V. Catullus Explains 29 

The Rich Man 30 

To-night 31 

Those Two Boys ....... 33 

Help! The Passionate Householder to 

His Love 35 

ix 



x Contents 

PAGE 

The Servants 37 

Our Dum'd Animals 40 

A Soft Sussurrus 42 

A Summer Summary ...... 43 

A Quatrain 44 

To a Light Housekeeper 45 

How? 47 

Ballade of the Breakfast Table ... 48 

Ornithology 50 

To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour .... 51 

To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour (Second Idyl) . 53 

Notions 55 

My Ladye's Eyen 56 

To a Lady 57 

"A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned " . 58 

An Ultimatum to Myrtilla .... 59 

Love Gustatory 61 

She Is Not Fair 62 

To Myrtilla, Again 63 

Myrtilla's Third Degree 65 

To Myrtilla Complaining .... 67 

Christmas Cards — To the Grocery Boy 68 

To the Janitor 69 

To the Waiter : 70 

To the Apartment House Telephone 

Girl 70 



Contents xi 



PAGE 



Christmas Cards — To the Barber . 71 

To the Hall and Elevator Boy . 72 

Ballade of a Hardy Annual .... 74 

A Plea 76 

Footlight Motifs — Mrs. Fiske ... 78 

Footlight Motifs — Olga Nethersole . 80 

Ballade of the Average Reader ... 81 

Posey's Guerdon 83 

Signal Service 84 

Sporadic Fiction 86 

Popular Ballad; " Never Forget Your 

Parents" 88 

Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle) . . 90 

To a Thesaurus 92 

The Ancient Lays 94 

Erring in Company 95 

The Limit . . 97 

Chorus for Mixed Voices .... 99 

The Translated Way 101 

"And Yet It Is a Gentle Art." ... 102 

Occasionally ' . . 103 

Jim and Bill 105 

When Nobody Listens .... ^ 106 

Office Mottoes 109 

Metaphysics . in 

Heads and Tails 112 



xii Contents 

PAGE 

An Election Night Pantoum . .' . 114 

I Can Not Pay That Premium . . . 116 

Three Authors 118 

To Quotation 120 

Melodrama 122 

A Poor Excuse, but Our Own . . . 123 

Monotonous Variety 125 

The Amateur Botanist 127 

A Word for It 128 

The Poem Speaks . 129 

Bedbooks 131 

A New York Child's Garden of Verses . 133 

Downward, Come Downward . . . 135 

Speaking of Hunting 136 

The Flat Hunter's Way 138 

Birds and Bards 139 

A Wish — An Apartmental Ditty . . 140 

The Monument of Q. H. F 142 



TOBOGGANNING ON PARNASSUS 



TOBOGGANNING ON PARNASSUS 
Us Poets 

Wordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff; 

Much of Moore I have forgotten; 
Parts of Tennyson are guff; 

Bits of Byron, too, are rotten. 

All of Browning isn't great; 

There are slipshod lines in Shelley; 
Every one knows Homer's fate; 

Some of Keats is vermicelli. 

Sometimes Shakespeare hit the slide, 
Not to mention Pope or Milton; 

Some of Southey's stuff is snide. 
Some of Spenser's simply Stilton. 

When one has to boil the pot, 
One can't always watch the kittle. 

You may credit it or not — 
Now and then i" slump a little! 



Rubber-Stamp Humour 

If couples mated but for love; 
If women all were perfect cooks; 
If Hoosier authors wrote no books; 
If horses always won; 
If people in the flat above 
Were silent as the very grave; 
If foreign counts were prone to save; 
If tailors did not dun — 

If automobiles always ran 
As advertised in catalogues; 
If tramps were not afraid of dogs; 
If servants never left; 
If comic songs would always scan; 
If Alfred Austin were sublime; 
If poetry would always rhyme; 
If authors all were deft — 

If office boys were not all cranks 
On base-ball; if the selling price 
Of meat and coal and eggs and ice 
Would stop its mad increase; 
If women started saying "Thanks" 
When men gave up their seats in cars; 
If there were none but good cigars, 
And better yet police — 
4 



Rubber-Stamp Humout 

If there were no such thing as booze; 
If wifey's mother never came 
To visit; if a foot-ball game 

Were mild and harmless sport; 
If all the Presidential news 
Were colourless; if there were men 
At every mountain, sea-side, glen, 
River and lake resort — 

If every girl were fair of face; 
If women did not fear to get 
Their suits for so-called bathing wet — 
If all these things were true, 
This earth would be a pleasant place. 

But where would people get their laughs? 
And whence would spring the paragraphs? 
And what would jokers do? 



The Simple Stuff 

AD PUERUM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 32. 

"Persicos odi, puer, apparatus." 

Nix on the Persian pretence! 

Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus! 
Wreaths of the linden tree, hence! 
Nix on the Persian pretence! 
Waiter, here's seventy cents — 

Come, let me celebrate Bacchus! 
Nix on the Persian pretence! 

Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus. 



"Carpe Diem," or Cop the Day 

AD LEUCONOEN 
Horace: Book I, Ode 13. 
" Tu ne quossieris, scire nefas — " 

It is not right for you to know, so do not ask, 

Leuconoe, 
How long a life the gods may give or ever we 

are gone away; 
Try not to read the Final Page, the ending 

colophonian, 
Trust not the gypsy's tea-leaves, nor the 

prophets Babylonian. 
Better to have what is to come enshrouded 

in obscurity 
Than to be certain of the sort and length of 

our futurity. 
Why, even as I monologue on wisdom and 

longevity 
How Time has flown! Spear some of it! 

The longest life is brevity. 



That for Money! 

AD C. SALLUSTIUM CRISPUM 
Horace: Book II, Ode 2 

"Nellus argento color est avaris." 

Sallust, I know you of old, 

How you hate the sight of gold — 

"Idle ingots that encumber 

Mother Earth" — I've got your number. 

Why is Proculeius known 

From Elmira to Malone? 

For his money? Don't upse me! 

For his love of folks — you get me? 

Choke the Rockefeller yen 
For the clink of iron men! 
Happiness it will not mint us, 
Take it from your Uncle Quintus. 

Fancy food and wealthy drink 
Raise Gehenna with a gink; 
Pastry, terrapin, and cheeses 
Bring on gout and swell diseases. 



That f ot Money ! 

Phraates upon the throne 
Old King Cyrus used to own 
Fails to hoodwink or deceive me, 
Cyrus was some king, believe me! 

Get me right: a man's-size prince 
Knows that money is a quince. 
When they see the Yellow Taffy, 
Reg'lar Princes don't go daffy. 



Xanthias Jollied 

AD XANTHIAM PHOCEUM 
Horace: Book II, Ode 4. 

"Ne sit audita tibi amor pudori." 

Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamed 
That she you love is but a servant. 

Remember, lovers far more famed 
Were just as fervent. 

Achilles loved the pretty slave 
Briseis for her fair complexion; 

And to Tecmessa Ajax gave 
His young affection. 

Why, Agamemnon at the height 

Of feasting, triumph, and anointment, 

Left everything to keep, one night, 
A small appointment. 

And are you sure the girl you love — 

This maid on whom you have your heart set 

Is lowly — that she is not of 
The Roman smart set? 

A maiden modest as is she, 

So full of sweetness and forbearance, 
Must be all right; her folks must be 

Delightful parents. 

10 



Xanthias Jollied 



Her arms and face I can commend, 
And, as the writer of a poem, 

I fain would compliment, old friend, 
The limbs below 'em. 

Nay, be not jealous. Stop your fears. 

My tendencies are far from sporty. 
Besides, the number of my years 

Is over forty. 



11 



Horace the Wise 

AD PYRRHAM 

Horace: Book I, Ode 5. 

"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa" 

What lady-like youth in his wild aberrations 

Is putting cologne on his brow? 
For whom are the puffs and the blond trans- 
formations? 

I wonder who's kissing you now.* 

Tee hee! I must laugh when I think of his 
finish, 

Not wise to your ways and your rep. 
Ha! ha! how his fancy for you will diminish! 

I know, for I'm Jonathan Hep. 

•Paraphraser's note: Horace beat the modern song writers to 
this. The translation is literal enough — "Quis . . . gracilis 
te puer . . urget?" . 



12 



Jealousy 

AD LYDIAM 

Horace: Book L, Ode 13. 

"Quern tu y Lydia, Tekphi 
Cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi — " 

What time thou yearnest for the arms 
Of Telephus, I fain would twist 'em; 

When thou dost praise his other charms 
It just upsets my well-known system; 

My brain is like a three-ring circus, 

In short, it gets my capra hircus. 

My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale, 
My heart becomes unduly spiteful, 

My verses in the Evening Mail 
Are far from snappy and delightful. 

I put a civil question, Lyddy: 

Is that a way to treat one's stiddy? 

What mean those marks upon thee, girl? 

Those prints of brutal osculation? 
Great grief! that lowlife and that churl! 

That Telephus abomination! 
Can him, O votary of Venus, 
Else everything is off between us. 
13 



Toboggfanmng on Parnassus * 

O triply beatific those 

Whose state is classified as married, 
Untroubled by the green-eyed woes, 

By such upheavals never harried. 
Ay, three times happy are the wed ones, 
Who cleave together till they're dead ones. 



14 



To Be Quite Frank 

IN CHLORIN 

Horace: Book III, Ode 15. 
" Uxor pauperis Ibyci — " 

Your conduct, naughty Chloris, is 
Not just exactly Horace's 

Ideal of a lady 

At the shady 
Time of life; 
You mustn't throw your soul away 
On foolishness, like Pholoe — 

Her days are folly-laden — 

She's a maiden, 
You're a wife. 

Your daughter, with propriety, 
May look for male society, 
Do one thing and another 
In which mother 
Shouldn't mix; 
But revels Bacchanalian 
Are — or should be — quite alien 
To you a married person, 
Something worse'n 
Forty-six! 

15 



Tobogganing on Parnassus ♦ 

Yes, Chloris, you cut up too much, 
You love the dance and cup too much, 

Your years are quickly flitting — 

To your knitting, 
Right about! 
Forget the incidental things 
That keep you from parental things — 

The World, the Flesh, the Devil, 

On the level, 
Cut 'em out! 



16 



R. S, V. P. 

AD PHYLLIDEM 
Horace: Book IV Ode u 
"Est mihi nonum superantis annum" 

Phyllis, IVe a keg of fine fermented grape 

juice, 
Alban wine that's been nine years in the 

cellar. 
Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden, 
Plenty of parsley. 

See my little shack — why, you'd hardly 

know it. 
All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and 

shiny; 
Flowers all around, altar simply famished — 
Hungry for lamb stew. 

Neighbours all are coming over to the party, 
All the busy boys, all the giggling girlies, 
Whiffs of certain things wafted from the 
kitchen — 
Simply delicious. 

17 



Tobogganing on Parnassus . 

Oh, of course. You ask why the fancy fire- 
works, 

Why the awning out, why the stylish doings. 

Well, I'll tell you why. It's Maecenas' 
birthday — 
13th of April. 

Telephus? Oh, tush! Pass him up completely! 
Telly's such a swell; Telly doesn't love you; 
Telly is a trifler; Telly's running round with 
Some other fairy. 

Phyllie, don't mismate; those that do regret it. 
Phaeton — you know his unhappy story; 
Poor Bellerophon, too, you must remember, 
Pegasus shook him. 

If these few remarks, rather aptly chosen, 
Make a hit with you, come, don't make me 

jealous. 
Let me sing you songs of my own composing. 
Oh, come on over! 



18 



Advice 

AD ARIUSTUH FUSCUM 



Horace: Book I, Ode 22. 
"Integer vita scelerisque pur us" — 

Take it from me: A guy who's square, 
His chances always are the best. 

Vm in the know, for I've been there, 
And that's no ancient Roman jest. 

What time he hits the hay to rest 
There's nothing on his mind but hair, 

No javelin upon his chest — 

Take it from me, a guy who's square. 

There's nothing that can throw a scare 
Into the contents of his vest; 

His name is Eva I-Don't-Care; 
His chances always are the best. 

Why, .once, when I was way out West, 

Singing to Lalage, a bear 
Came up, and I was some distressed — 

Vm in the know, for I've been there. 
19 



Tobogfganningf on Parnasstfe 

But back he went into his lair, 

(Cage, corner, den, retreat, nook, nest), 

And left me to "The Maiden's Prayer" — 
And that's no ancient Roman jest. 

In Newtonville or Cedar Crest, 

In Cincinnati or Eau Claire, 
I'll warble till I am a pest, 

"My Lalage" — no matter where — 
Take it from me! 

II 

Fuscus, my friend, take it from me — 

I know the world and what it's made of — 
One on the square has naught to be 
Afraid of. 

The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope. 

Such deadly things need not alarm him. 
Why, even arrows dipped in dope 
Can't harm him ! 

He's safe in any clime or land, 
Desert or river, hill or valley; 
Safe in all places on the Rand- 
McNally. 

Why, one day in my Sabine grot, 

I sang for Lalage to hear me; 
A wolf came in and he did not 
Come near me! 
20 



Advice 

Ah, set me on the sunless plain, 

In China, Norway, or Matanzas, 
Ay, place me anywhere from Maine 
To Kansas. 

Still of my Lalage I'll sing, 

Where'er the Fates may chance to drop me; 
And nobody nor anything 
Shall stop me. 



21 



When Horace "Came Back" 

CARMEN AMOEBAEUM 

I 
Horace: Book III, Ode 9. 
u Dorec gratus eram tibi — " 

HORACE 

When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy, 

And you my embraceable she, 
In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians 
Had nothing on me. 

LYDIA 

When I was the person you penned all that 
verse on, 
Ere Chloe had caused you to sigh, 
Not she whose cognomen is Ilia the Roman 
Was happier than I. 

HORACE 

Ah, Chloe the Thracian — — whose sweet modu- 
lation 
Of voice as she lilts to the lyre 
Is sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates 
spare her - 

I'd love to expire. 
22 



When Horace "Came Back" 



LYDIA 



Tush! Calais claims me and wholly inflames me, 

He pesters me never with rhymes; 
If they should spare Cally, I'd perish totally 
A couple of times. 



HORACE 



Suppose my affection in Lyddy's direction 

Returned ; that I gave the good-by 
To Chloe the golden, and back to the olden? - 
I pause for reply. 



LYDIA 



Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer 

Than stars, be you blustery and base, 
I'll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for you 
All over the place. 



II 



HORACE 



What time I was your one best bet 
And no one passed the wire before me, 

Dear Lyddy, I cannot forget 
How you would— yes, you would — adore me. 

To others you would tie the can; 
You thought of me with no aversion. 

In those days I was happier than 
A Persian. 

23 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

LYDIA 

Correct. As long as you were not 
So nuts about this Chloe person, 

Your flame for me burned pretty hot — 
Mine was the door you pinned your verse on. 

Your favourite name began with L, ' 
While I thought you surpassed by no man — 

Gladder than Ilia, the well- 
Known Roman. 

HORACE 

On Chloe? Yes, I've got a case; 

Her voice is such a sweet soprano; 
Her people come from Northern Thrace; 

You ought to hear her play piano. 
If she would like my suicide — 

If she'd want me a dead and dumb thing, 
Me for a glass of cyanide, 
Or something. 

LYDIA 

Now Calais, the handsome son 

Of old Ornitus, has me going; 
He says I am his honey bun, 

He's mine, however winds are blowing; 
I think that he is awful nice, 

And, if the gods the signal gave him, 
I'd just as lievedie once or twice 
To save him. 

24 



When Horace "Came Back" 

HORACE 

Suppose I'm gone on you again, 
Suppose I've got ingrown affection 

For you; I sort of wonder, then, 
If you'd have any great objection. 

Suppose I pass this Chloe up 
And say: " Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o' ye! " 

Would that drop sweetness in your cup? 
Eh, Lydia? 

LYDIA 

Why, say — though he's fair as a star, 
And you are like a cork, erratic 

And light — and though I know you are 
As blustery as the Adriatic, 

I think I'd rather live with you 
Or die with you, I swear to gracious. 

So I will be your Mrs. Q. 
Horatius. 



25 



Nix on the Fluffy Stuff 

AD CYNTHIAM 

Propertius: Book I, Elegy 2. 

"Quid iuvat omato procedere, vita, capillo 
Et tenues Coa veste movere simis? " 

Why, my love, the yellow trinkets 
In your tresses' purer gold? 

Why the Syrian perfume? Think it's 
Nice to be thus aureoled? 

Why the silken robes that rustle? 
Why the pigment on the map? 

Think you all that fume and fuss'll 
Ever charm a chap? 



Mother Earth is unaffected — 
Is her beauty therefore less? 
Is she gray or ill-complected? 

I should call her some success. 
Soft the murmur of the river, 

Bright the shore that lines the sea 
Is the universe a flivver? 

No, take it from me. 
26 



Nix on the Fluffy Stuff 

Castor loved the lady Phoebe 

For no bought or borrowed wile; 
Hillaira — wasn't she be- 

Loved without excessive style? 
Hippodamia slaved no fashions — 

All that braver, elder time 
Is replete with simple passions 
Difficult to rhyme. 

Nay, my Cynthia, sweet and smile-ish. 
Take it from your own Propert, 

Don't essay to be so stylish, 
Don't attempt the harem skirt. 

I am ever Yours Sincerely, 
Past the shadow of a doubt, 

Yours Forever, if you'll merely 
Cut the frivol out. 



£7 



Catullus, Considerable Kisser 

(A Pasteurization of Ode VII.) 

How many kisses, Lesbia, miss, you ask would 

be enough for me? 
I cannot sum the total number; nay, that were 

. too tough for me. 
The sands that o'er Cyrene's shore lie sweetly 

odoriferous, 
The stars that sprent the firmament when 

overly stelliferous — 
Come, Lezzy, please add all of these, until the 

whole amount of 'em 
Will sorely vex the rubbernecks attempting 

to keep count of 'em. 



28 



V, Catullus Explains 

ODE LXXXV: AD LESBIAM 

Hark thou, my Lesbia, there be none existent 
Can truly say she hath been loved by me 

As thou hast been. No faith is more consistent 
Than that which V. Catullus gives to thee. 

How reasonless the state of an emotion ! 

For wert thou faultless, perfect, and sublime, 
I could not like thee; nor would my devotion 

And love be less wert thou the Queen of 
Crime. 



29 



The Rich Man 

The rich man has his motor-car, 

His country and his town estate. 
He smokes a fifty-cent cigar 
And jeers at Fate. 

He frivols through the livelong day, 
He knows not Poverty her pinch. 
His lot seems light, his heart seems gay, 
He has a cinch. 

Yet though my lamp burns low and dim, 
Though I must slave for livelihood — 
Think you that I would change with him? 
You bet I would! 



To-night 

Love me to-night! Fold your dear arms around me — 

Hurt me — I do but glory in your might! 
Tho' your fierce strength absorb, engulf, and drown me, 
Love me to-night! 

The world's wild stress sounds less than our own heart-beat 

Its puny nothingness sinks out of sight. 
Just you and I and Love alone are left, sweet — 
Love me to-night! 

Love me to-night! I care not for to-morrow — 

Look in my eyes, aglow with Love's own light: 
Full soon enough will come daylight, and sorrow — 
Love me to-night! 
— Beatrice M. Barry, in the Banquet Table. 

We can't to-night! We're overworked and 
busy; 
We've got a lot of paragraphs to write; 
Although your invitation drives us dizzy, 
We can't to-night ! 

But, Trixie, we admit we're greatly smit with 
The heart you picture — incandescent, 
white. 
We must confess that you have made a hit 
with 

Us here to-night. 
31 



Tobogganing on Parnassus * 

O Beatrice! O Temporal O Heaven! 

List to our lyre the while the strings we 
smite; 
Where shall you be at — well, say half -past 
seven 

To-morrow night? 



32 



Those Two Boys 

When Bill was a lad he was terribly bad. 

He worried his parents a lot; 
He'd lie and he'd swear and pull little girls' 
hair; 

His boyhood was naught but a blot. 

At play and in school he would fracture each 
rule — 
In mischief from autumn to spring; 
And the villagers knew when to manhood he 
grew 
He would never amount to a thing. 

When Jim was a child he was not very wild; 

He was known as a good little boy; 
He was honest and bright and the teacher's 
delight — 

To his mother and father a joy. 

All the neighbours were sure that his virtue'd 
endure, 
That his life would be free of a spot; 
They were certain that Jim had a great head 
on him 
And that Jim would amount to a lot. 

33 



Tobogganing on Parnassus * 

And Jim grew to manhood and honour and 
fame 

And bears a good name; 
While Bill is shut up in a dark prison cell — 

You never can tell. 



34 



Help 

The Passionate Householder to his Love 

Come, live with us and be our cook, 
And we will all the whimsies brook 
That German, Irish, Swede, and Slav 
And all the dear domestics have. 

And you shall sit upon the stoop 
What time we go and cook the soup, 
And you shall hear, both night and day, 
Melodious pianolas play. 

And we will make the beds, of course, 
You'll have two autos and a horse, 
A lady to Marcel your tresses, 
And all the madame's half-worn dresses. 

Your gowns shall be of lace and silk, 
Your laving shall be done in milk. 
Two trained physicians when you cough, 
And Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays off. 

When you are mashing Irish spuds 
You'll wear the very finest duds. 
If good to you these prospects look, 
Come, live with us and be our cook. 

35 



Toboggannmg on Parnassus 

On callers we have put no stops, 
We love the iceman and the cops, 
And no alarm clock with its ticks 
And bell to ring at half-past six. 

O Gretchen, Bridget, Hulda, Mary, 
Come, be our genius culinary. 
If good to you these prospects look, 
Come, live with us and be our cook. 



36 



The Servants 

With genuflexions to Kipling's "The Ladies" 

We've taken our cooks where we've found 
'em; 

We've answered many an ad; 
We've had our pickin' o' servants, 

And most of the lot was bad. 
Some was Norahs an' Bridgets; 

Tillie she came last fall; 
Claras and Fannies and Lenas and Annies, 

And now we've got none at all. 



Now, we don't know much about servants, 

For, takin' 'em all along, 
You never can tell till you've tried 'em, 

And then you are like to be wrong. 
There's times when you'll think that they're 
perfect; 
There's times when you'll think that they're 
bum, 
But the things you'll learn from those that 
have gone 
May help you with those to come. 

37 



Tobogganningf on Patnasstts 

Norah, she landed from Dublin, 

Green as acushla machree; 
Norah was willing and anxious 

To learn what a servant should be. 
We told Mrs. Kirk all about her — 

She offered her seven more per — 
Now Norah she works, as you know, for the 
Kirks — 

And we learned about servants from her. 



Lena we got from an "office"; 

Lena was saving and Dutch — 
Thought that our bills were enormous, 

And told us we spent far too much. 
Lena decamped with some silver, 

Jewelry, laces and fur — 
She was loving and kind, with a Socialist 
mind — 

And we learned about servants from her. 



Tillie blew in from the Indies, 

Black as the middle of night — 
Cooked like a regular Savarin — 

Kitchen was shiny an' bright. 
Everything ran along lovely 

Until — it was bound to occur — 
She ran away with a porter one day — 

But we learned about servants from her. 



The Servants 

We've taken our cooks where we've found 
them, 

Yellow and black and white; 
Some was better than others, 

But none of the lot was right. 
And the end of it's only worry 

And trouble and bother and fuss — 
When you answer an ad., think of those we 
have had 

And learn about servants from us. 



39 



Oat Dum'd Animals 

What time I seek my virtuous couch to steal 
Some surcease from the labours of the day, 

Ere silence like a poultice comes to heal — 
In short, when I prepare to hit the hay; 

Ere slumber's chains (I quote from Moore) 
have bound me, 

I hear a lot of noises all around me. 



Time was when falling off the well-known log 
Were harder far than falling off to sleep; 

But that was ere my neighbour's gentle dog 
Began to think he was defending sheep. 

From twelve to two his barking and his howl- 
ing ^ 

Accompanies two torn cats' nightly yowling. 



At two-ten sharp the parrot in the flat 
Across the way his monologue essays. 

At three, again, as Gilbert says, the cat; 
At four a milkman's horse, exulted, neighs. 

At six-fifteen, nor does it every vary, 

I hear the dulcet tones of a canary. 
46 



Out Dum'd Animals 

Each living thing I love; I love the birds; 

The beasts in field and forest, too, I love, 
But I have writ these poor, if metric words, 

To query which, by all the pow'rs above, 
Of all the animals — pray tell me, some one — 
Is called by any courtesy a dumb one? 



41 



A Soft Sifsttffus 

A soft susurrus in the night, 

A song whose singer is unseen - 
'Twere poetry itself to write 

"A soft susurrus in the night!" 
I know, as those mosquitos bite, 

That I forgot to fix that screen, 
A soft susurrus in the night — 

A song whose singer is unseen. 



42 



A Summer Summary 

Shall I, lying in a grot, 
Die because the day is hot? 
Or declare I can't endure 
Such a torrid temperature? 
Be it hotter than the flames 
South Gehenna Junction claims, 
If it be not so to me, 
What care I how hot it be? 

Shall I say I love the town 
Praised by Robinson and Browne? 
Shall I say, "In summer heat 
Old Manhattan can't be beat?" 
Be it luring as a bar, 
Or my neighbour's motor-car, 
If I think it is pazziz 
What care I how fine it is? 

Shall I prate of rural joys 
Far from civic smoke and noise? 
Shall I, like the others, drool 
"But the nights are always cool? ,, 
If I hate to rise at six 
Shall I praise the suburbs? Nix! 
If the country's not for me, 
What care I how good it be? 
43 



Tobogganning on Parnassus . 

Town or country, cool or hot, 
Differs nothing, matters not; 
For to quote that Roman cuss, 
Why dispute "de gustibus?" 
If to this or that one should 
Take a fancy, it is good. 
If these rhymes look good to me, 
What care I how bad they be? 



A Quatrain 

A quatrain fills a little space, 
Although it's pretty small, 

And oftentimes, as in this case, 
It has no point at all. 



44 



To a Light Housekeeper 

(Who hitches laundering articles to the curtain 
string and pastes them on the pane.) 

Lady, thou that livest 

Just across the way, 
If a hang thou givest 

What the people say, 
If a cuss thou carest 

What a poet thinks — 
Hearken, if thou darest, 

Most immodest minx! 

Though thy gloves thou tiest, 

To the curtain string, 
Though the things thou driest 

Gird me while I sing, 
Hankies and inventions 

Of the lacy tribe — 
Things I may not mention, 

Let alone describe. 

These I mutely stand for 
Though the sight offend, 

THIS I reprimand for; 
Take it from a friend: 
45 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Cease to pin thy tresses 
To the window sill, 

Or I'll tell the presses — 
Honestly, I will. 



46 



How? 

How can I work when you play the piano, 

Feminine person above? 
How can I think, with your ceaseless soprano 
Singing : "Ah, Love " ? 

How can I dream of a subject aesthetic, 

Far from the purlieus of prose? 
How, with the call of the peripatetic 
"High! High cash clo'es!"? 

How can I write when the children are crying? 

How can I poetize — how? 
How can I help imperfect versifying? 
(There is some now.) 

How can I bathe in the thought-waves of 
beauty? 
How, with my nerves on the slant, 
Can I perform my poetical duty? 
Frankly, I can't. 



47 



Ballade of the Breakfast Table 

When the Festal Board, as the papers say, 
Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat, 

At breakfast, Fruhstiick or dejeuner, 
(As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat) 
At breakfast, then, if I may repeat, 

This is what gets me into a huff, 
This is a query I cannot beat: 

Why don't they ever have spoons enough? 

I've broken my fast with the grave and gay, 

With hoi polloi and with the elite; 
I've been aU over the U. S. A. 

From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney 
Street. 

But aye when I sit in the morning seat 
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff, 

Plenty of food, but in this they cheat: 
Why don't they ever have spoons enough? 

Take it at breakfast, only to-day: 
This was the layout, fresh and sweet: 

Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;* 
Cereal — one of the brands** of wheat; 

*And about as edible. 

?*To advertisers: This space for sale. 

48 



Ballade of the Breakfast Table 

Soft-boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat) ; 
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff ) ; 

Napery, china, and glasses complete — 
Why don't they ever have spoons enough? 

l'envoi 

Autocratesses, forgive my heat, 

But isn't it time to change that stuff? 

Small is the benison I entreat — 
Why don't they ever have spoons enough? 



Ornithology 

Unlearned I in ornithology — 
All I know about the birds 

Is a bunch of etymology, 

Just a lot of high-flown words. 

Is the curlew an uxorial 

Bird? The Latin name for crow? 

Is the bulfmch grallatorial? 
I dunno. 

O'er my head no golden gloriole 

Ever shall be proudly set 
For my knowledge of the oriole, 

Eagle, ibis, or egrette. 
I know less about the tanager 

And its hopes and fears and aims 
Than a busy Broadway manager 
Does of James. 

But, despite my incapacity 

On the birdies of the air, 
I am not without sagacity, 

Be it ne'er so small a share. 
This I know, though ye be scorning at 

What I know not, though ye mock, 
Birdies wake me every morning at 
Four o'clock. 

50 



To Alice-Sit-By-The-Hour 

Lady in the blue kimono, you that live across 

the way, 
One may see you gazing, gazing, gazing all 

the livelong day, 
Idly looking out your window from your 

vantage point above. 
Are you convalescent, lady? Are you worse? 

Are you in love? 

Ever gazing, as you hang there on the little 

window seat, 
Into flats across the way or down upon the 

prosy street. 
Can't you rent a pianola? Can't you iron, 

sew, or cook? 
Write a letter, bake a pudding, make a bed 

or read a book? 

Tell me of the fascination you indubitably find 
In the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, 

in the hurdy-gurdy grind. 
Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are 

you waiting for a knight 
To descend upon your fastness and to save 

you from your plight? 

51 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycoddle 

dame, 
Does your doing nothing never make you feel 

the blush of shame? 
As you sit and stare and ditto, not a single 

thing to do, 
Lady in the blue kimono, lady, how I envy 

you! 



52 



To Aftce-Sit-By-Thc-Hour 

(Being the second idyl to an idle idol.) 

Lady in the blue kimono, 

May we write of you again? 
Do not hand us out a "No! no!" 

Do not dam the flowing pen. 
Once again a poem at you 

Crave we leave of you to write — 
Lady idle as a statue, 

Lady silent as the night! 

Lady in the blue kimono, 

Heavy is our heart and dumb, 
Though we weep no tear nor show no 

Sign of sadness, we are glum; 
For that wrapper, silk or cotton, 

You eternally had on — 
It is gone, but not forgotten. 

Still the fact is, it is gone. 

Lady in the blue kimono, 
Although deadly hot the day, 

Don't you think — (alas! we know no 
Way to put what we would say!) 

53 



Tobogganning on Parnassus 

Er — although your smile ,is pleasant, 
Wondrous fair, and all that stuff - 

Do you really think, at present, 
It is — er — ahem — enough? 



54 



Notions 

Myrtie, my notion of no one to write about 
Seems to be any one other than you; 

Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night 
about 
Twelve anapestic good verses and true. 

Eke my conception of no girl to gaze upon, 
O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest, 

Saving the one that I'm spilling this praise 
upon — 
You, as it isn't unlikely you've guessed. 

Also my notion of nowhere to be at all — 
Pardon, Myrtilla, my lack of restraint — 

Notion of mapless location is — - d. it all — 
Anywhere you simultaneous ain't. 



55 



My Ladye's Eyen 

Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye 

auncient theme 
Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken 

them to dreme, 
And through ye blessed hours of slepe — thilk 

eyen or browne or blue 
Doe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by 

goddiswoundes thaie doe! 

gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche 

ther bee, 
And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a 

hitte wyth mee, 
Hir eyen ben soe o'erpassing bright yt holclen 

mee in thrall, 

1 tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne 

slepe atte all. 



56 



To a Lady 



Ah, Lady, if these verses glowed 

Warmer than chill appreciation — 
If they should lengthen to an "Ode 
On Fascination — " 



If I should cast this cold restraint, 

Nor dam this pen's o'er eager flowing 
If but your portrait I should paint 
In colours glowing — 

Assuming I should write such dope — 
If, haply, you can but conceive it — 
As Fahrenheit as Laurence Hope — 
You'd not believe it. 

YOU'D not; but, oh, Another would! 

For, by and large and altogether, 
Us potes must be misunderstood. 
* * * 

What lovely weather! 



57 



"A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned" 

(The man who wants the perfect wife should marry a 
"stock-size. " She comes cheaper. — London Chronicle.) 

Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me! 

Lackadaydee and alas ! 
What is this, I greatly fear me, 
That has come to pass? 

Craving, as I do, perfection, 

Loathing anything like flaws, 
I must raise a slight objection 
To your building laws. 

You are five one-and-a-quarter, 

And your girth is thirty-three — 
Myrtie, you're a little shorter 
Than you ought to be. 

It is far from my intentions 

Your proportions to describe, 
Briefly, Myrtie, your dimensions 
Do not seem to jibe. 

Farewell, Myrt, for Ethelisa 

Seems to be my certain fate, 
Stupid? Silly? Sure, but she's a 
Perfect thirty-eight. 
58 



An Ultimatum to Myttilla 

(Inspired by the shameless styles in hair.) 

Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said — 

And your tone was earnest, very — 

You would never deck your head 
With this vernal millinery. 

Myrt, to mince no words, you lied; 

Oh, that I should live to know it! 
You that are my nearly-bride; 

I that am your nearly-poet! 

For I saw the awful lid 

You had on at 10 this morning; 
Myrt, it was a merrywid, 

Spite of my decisive warning. 

Still, I can forgive you that; 

Though the thing look ne'er so silly; 
I will overlook the hat 

If you promise this, Myrtillie: 

Wear your lacebelows and fluffs; 

Wear the awfullest creations 

But — omit the stylish puffs 

And the vogueish transformations. 

59 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Myrt, if you inflate your hair 
I shall — well — excoriate you, 

And, I positively swear, 
Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you. 



Love Gustatory 

Myrtilla, I have seen you eat — 
Have heard you drink, to be precise — 

Your soup, and, notwithstanding, sweet, 
The gurgitation wasn't nice, 

I overlooked a tiny fault 

Like that with just a grain of salt. 

And, sweetest maid in all New York, 
When all ungracefully you pierce 

The toothsome oyster with your fork 
I realize you're pretty fierce; 

But such a feat, be't understood, 

Nor Venus nor Diana could. 

I've seen you hang, high in the air, 

A stalk of fresh asparagus, 
Guiding its succulence to where 

It ought to go. I did not cuss. 
You had it hot and vinaigrette, 
Myrtilla, and I loved you yet. 

Myrt, I have stood for a good deal, 
As one will in this Cupid game, 

But now I know I'll never feel 

Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same 

Since I have seen you on the job 

Of eating corn — corn on the cob. 
61 



She Is Not Fair 

"She is not fair to outward view"; 
No beauty hers of form or face* 
She hath no witchery, 'tis true, 
No grace. 

Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind, 

Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair 
Hath she. She is — I am not blind — 
Not fair. 

What makes me love her, then? say you, 

For such a maid is not my wont. 
Love her! What makes you think I do? 
I don't. 



62 



To Myttilla Again 

Myrtilla, when the thought of you 
Obstructs my cold, unbiased view, 

And keeps me from 

My hard though hum- 
Ble task, 
I do not murmur nor complain- 
I do not ululate nor feign 

A love for vin 

Or what is in 

A flask. 



When, as I said in stanza first, 
My mind is thoroughly immersed 

With you until 

My pulses thrill 

And throb, 
I don't, in tones more picturesque 
Than journalistic, slam my desk, 

And in a fit 

Of frenzy quit 

My job. 



63 



Toboggannmg on Parnassus- 

When, as I may have said before, 
Your image I can not ignore, 

I do not tear 

My thinning hair 
Nor cuss; 
I leave such sentimental show 
To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe 

I merely spill 

Some ink, Myrtil- 
La, thus. 



64 



Myftilla's Third Degree 

(With deep bows to Adelaide Anne Proctor's heirs, 
administrators and assigns.) 

Before I trust my Fate to thee, 

Or place my hand in thine — 
(This is an easy parody, 

Without a change of line.) 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul 
to-night for me. 

Is there, within thy dimmest dreams, 

This dread ambition, Myrt? 
Hast thou the ghost of a desire 

To wear a hobble* skirt? 
If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before 
all is lost. 

Look deeper still. Dost underline 

Most words in writing letters? 
Or "Local" write on envelopes? 

Say, ere I bind my fetters. 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true 
mercy tell me so. 

•"Harem," or whatever is to come in the future, may be sub- 
stituted here. 

65 



Toboggfanning: on Parnassus' 

Once more. Dost thou, in easy speech, 

Ever let fall " those kind"? 
Art thou to nutmeg in a pie 

Unalterably inclined? 
If aught of these, maid of my wooing, there's 
absolutely nothing doing. 



66 



To Myrtilla Complaining 

Myrtie, you weep that the bard has neglected 
you, 

Passed you, forgotten you, let you alone. 
Bless you, Myrtilla, I never suspected you 

Ever would speak to me, sweet, in that tone. 

Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned 
to you 

Only on days when I've nothing to do, 
Otherwise I have no time to attend to you, 

Others, you say, are more weighty than you. 

Sweet, you allege I have not enough time for 
you, 
Yes, and you say that I hold you but light, 
Only when pressed do I reel off a rhyme for 
you 

* * * 

Lady Myrtilla, you've doped it out right. 



Christmas Cards 



TO THE GROCERY BOY 



Before you send me up that card 

With rime and diction far from subtle, 
Hear what a now rebellious bard 

Says in a quasi-pre-rebuttal. 

"A nickel in a poor boy's hat!" 
You, minion of a grubbing grocer, 

You dare, indeed, to ask me that? 
Bold and relentless, say I, "No, sir!" 

You who bring some one else's tea 
To us, while ours goes to the neighbours, 

And yet you dare demand from me 
Reward for inefficient labours ! 

You who but lately made me hit 

My head upon the dum-dum waiter — 

From me you get no silver bit. 

Fie, out upon you, youthful traitor! 
G8 



Christmas Cards 

Hard is my heart and tight my purse; 

Deaf is my ear to all your suing. 
Except this little bit of verse, 

There's absolutely nothing doing. 



II 



TO THE JANITOR 

Sullen, surly Scandinave, 

Smoking on a pipe, 
Valiantly I cast the glave 

At thee and thy type. 

Person of the shakeless grouch 
Tamperer with the cream, 

Idler, lounger, sloven, slouch 
Despot of the steam — 

Thou who bangest garbage cans 

In the hollow court, 
Thou whose children spin tin pans 

Deeming it is sport — 

Tyrant of the tenement, 

Take thy card and flee! 
Not a nickel, not a cent 

Dost thou get from me. 



Tobogganing: on Parnassus 
in 

TO THE WAITER 

O waiter, will you tell me why 
You think to get at Christmas time 

A five-case note, for do not I 
Slip you each day a dime? 

When as I crave Prime Ribs au Jus* 
And beg that you will bring them rare, 

They are well done. I fume and fuss 
And yet you do not care. 

Haply I order apple pie, 

But NOT your counsel or advice; 
You rub your hands and tell me: "Why, 

The mince is very nice. " 

You hide my hat, you hide my coat. 

Let others, if they care to, give, 
But as to this here gentle pote — 

Be glad he lets you live. 



*Well, how do you pronounce it, then? 

IV 
TO THE APARTMENT HOUSE TELEPHONE GIRL 

Proud, imperious female person 
That presideth o'er my 'phone, 

Hearken while I do some verse on 
Thee, and thee alone. 
70 



Christmas Cards 

Puffed and pompadoured and ratted, 
Reading Munsey's all the day, 

Pony-coated, otter-hatted — 
Listen to my lay: 

When I beg in desperation, 

"Eight O Seven Riverside," 
Why do I get "Information"? 

Is it justified? 

Why — I ask it with insistence — 
Why — prepare to be appalled — 

Why "$2.85 Long Distance" 
That I never called? 

When I call thee, "They don't answer" 
Tells me Central. (Oh, the crime S) 

Then thou sayest, thou Romancer, 
"Been here all the time!" 

Tyrant trim and telephonic, 

Christmas offerings to thee? 
Pardon if I seem laconic: 

Not a single c. 

v 

TO THE BARBER 

Prince of the parlour tonsorial, 
Knight of the razor and shears, 

Who have from time immemorial 

Snipped it too short round the ears — 

71 



Tobogfgannin§f on Parnassus 

You with your long academical 
Causes for "thinning on top," 

Selling me gallons of chemical 
Tonic, a brush, and a strop; 

You with your sad comicality, 
You with your bum badinage — 

Confound your congeniality! 
Confound your "Facial Massage?" 

Still, though you shave contragrainious,* 
Healing the cut with a lime, 

Don't I, quite nice and spontaneous, 
Daily contribute a dime? 

Mountain of foreign servility, 

Butcher of chin and of lip. 
Maugre your marked inability, 

Do I not fall for the tip? 

Hope you at Christmas for currency, 

Fiend of tonsorial tricks? 
Never was greater aberrancy — 

Coarsely I say to you, "Nix!" 



•Well, there ought to be. 

VI 
TO THE HALL-AND-ELEVATOR-BOY 

Lo, the West Indian! whose untutored mind 
To Christmas giving makes me disinclined, 
Who tellest callers I have moved away 
And mixest up the morning mail each day. 



Christmas Cards 

When for thine elevator car I ring 
Thou telephonest or some other thing; 
While, when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four, 
Thou'rt busy somewhere on the seventh floor - 
I wish thee from my soul all Christmas joy, 
But not a cent, O Elevator Boy! 



73 



Ballade of a Hardy Annual 

Many a jest that refuses to die 

Bobs up again as the seasons appear; 
Deathless it hits us again in the eye — 

Changeless and dull as the calendar year. 

Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere, 
Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak; 

Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear — 
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! 

Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly, 

All through the day of the " leathery sphere," 
Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy 

All on the theme of the grandmother dear. 

Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer 
Please us and tickle us quite to the choke. 

But — on this matter our attitude's clear — 
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! 

Giggle we can at a blueberry pie; 

Scream at a comedy king or ameer; 
Simply guffaw when the jestermen guy 

Marriage, a thing at which no one should 

jeer. 
Things that in others elicit a tear 
74 



Ballade of A Hatdy Annual 

All of our risibles simply unyoke; 

But from this stand we're unwilling to veer: 
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! 

l'envoi 

Brothers in motley, the season is here; 

Small is the boon that we sadly invoke: 
Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear! — 

Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! 



75 



A Plea 

Writers of baseball, attention! 

When you're again on the job — 
When, in your rage for invention, 

You with the language play hob — 
Most of your dope we will pardon, 

Though of the moth ball it smack; 
But — cut out the "sinister garden," 

Chop the " initial sack." 

Rake poor old Roget's "Thesaurus" 

For phrases fantastic and queer; 
And though on occasions you bore us, 

We will refrain from a sneer. 
We will endeavour to harden 

Ourselves to the rest of your clack, 
If you'll cut out the "sinister garden" 

And chop the "initial sack." 

Singers of words that are scrambled, 

Say, if you will, that he "died," 
Write, if you must, that he "ambled" - 

We shall be last to deride. 
But us to the Forest of Arden, 

Along with the misanthrope Jaques, 
If you cling to the "sinister garden " 

And stick to "initial sack." 
76 



A Plea 

Speak of the "sphere's aberration," 
Mention the " leathery globe/' 

Say he got "free transportation" — 
Though that try the patience of Job. 

But if you're wise you'll discard en- 
cumbrances such as we thwack — 

Especially "sinister garden" 
And the "initial sack." 



77 



Footlight Motifs 



MRS. FISKE 

Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk, 
Cascading, intermittent, choppy, 

The brittle voice of Mrs. Fiske 
Shall serve me now as copy. 

Assist me, O my Muse, what time 

I pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme! 

Time was, when first that voice I heard, 
Despite my close and tense endeavour, 

When many an important word 
Was lost and gone forever; 

Though, unlike others at the play, 

I never whispered: "Wha'd'd she say?" 

Some words she runs together so; 

Some others are distinctly stated; 
Some come too fast and some too slow 

And some are syncopated. 
And yet no voice — I am sincere — 
Exists that I prefer to hear. 
78 



Footlight Motifs 

For what is called "intelligence" 

By every Mrs. Fiskeian critic 
As usual is just a sense 
Of humour, analytic. 
So any time I'm glad to frisk 
Two bones to witness Mrs. Fiske, 



79 



Footlight Motifs 

ii 
olga nethersole 

I like little Olga, 

Her plays are so warm; 
And if I don't see 'em, 

They'll do me no harm. 

My Puritan training 

Has kept me from going 

To dramas in which 
Little Olga was showing. 

But I like little Olga, 
Her art is so warm; 

And if I don't see her 
She'll do me no harm. 



80 



Ballade of the Average Reader 

I try to touch the public taste, 

For thus I earn my daily bread. 
I try to write what folks will paste 

In scrap books after I am dead. 

By Public Craving I am led. 
(I' sooth, a most despotic leader) 

Yet, though I write for Tom and Ned, 
I've never seen an average reader. 

The Editor is good and chaste, 

But says: (Above the public's head; 
This is too good; 'twill go to waste. 

Write something commonplacer — 
Ed.) 

Write for the average reader, fed 
By pre-digested near-food's feeder, 

But though my high ideals have fled, 
I've never seen an average reader. 

How many lines have been erased! 

How many fancies have been shed! 
How many failures might be traced 

To this — this average-reader dread ! 

I've seen an average single bed; 
I've seen an average garden-weeder; 

I've seen an average cotton thread — 
I've never seen an average reader. 
81 



Tobogganing on Parnassus ^ 



l'envoi 

Most read of readers, if you've read 
The works of any old succeeder, 

You know that he, too, must have said: 
" I've never seen an Average Reader. " 



82 



Poesy's Guerdon 

( * * * I do not believe a single modern English 
poet is living to-day on the current proceeds of his 
verse. — From "Literary Taste and How to Form it" 
by Arnold Bennett,) 

What time I pen the Mighty Line 

Suffused with the spark divine 

As who should say: "By George! That's fine!" 

Indignantly do I deny 

The words of Arnold Bennett. Why, 

Is this not English verse? say I. 

And by the proceeds of that verse — 
Such as, e. g., these little terc- 
Ets — is not filled the family purse? 

Do we not live on what I sell, 
Sonnet, ballade, and villanelle? 



"We do," She says, "and none too well." 



83 



Signal Service 



Time-table ! Terrible and hard 

To figure ! At some station lonely 
We see this sign upon the card: 



We read thee wrong; the untrained eye 
Does not see always with precision. 
The train we thought to travel by 

t 

Again, undaunted, we look at 

The hieroglyphs, and as a rule a 
Small double dagger shows us that 

t 

And when we take a certain line 
On Tues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., or 
' Monday, 
We're certain to detect the sign: 



*Traia 20: Stops on signal" only. 
fRuns only on North-west division. 
JTrain does not stop at Ashtabula. 
§$10 extra fare ex. Sunday. 

84 



Signal Service 

Heck Junction — Here she comes ! Ff t ! Whiz ! 

A scurry — and the train has flitted! 
Again we look. We find it — viz., 



Through hieroglyphic seas we wade — 

Print is so cold and so unfeeling. 
The train we wait at Neverglade 

H 

Now hungrily the sheet we scan, 

Grimy with travel, thirsty, weary, 
And then — nothing is sadder than 



Yet, cursed as is every sign, 

The cussedest that we can quote is 
This treacherous and deadly line : 



* 

* * 



||Train does not stop where time omitted. 
IfConnects with C. & A. at Wheeling. 
JgiP*No diner on till after Erie. 
*%Subject to change without our notice. 



85 



Sporadic Fiction 

Why not a poem as they treat 

The stories in the magazines? 
"Eustacia's lips were very sweet. 

He stooped to" — and here intervenes 
A line — italics — telling one 

Where one may learn the things that he, 
The noble hero, had begun. 

{Continuation on page 3.) 

Page 3 — oh, here it is — no, here — 

"Kiss them. Eustacia hung her head; 
Whereat he said, 'Eustacia dear' — 

And sweetly low Eustacia said:" 
{Continued on page 17.) 

Here, just between the corset ad. 
And that of Smithers' Canderine. 

(Eustacia sweet, you drive me mad.) 

"No, no, not that! But let me tell 

You why I scorn your ardent kiss — 
Not that I do not love you well;" 

No, Archibald, the reason's this: 
{Continued on page 24.) 

Turn, turn my leaves, and let me learn 
Eustacia's fate; I pine for more; 

Oh, turn and turn and turn and turn! 

86 



Spofadic Fiction 

" Because — and yet I ought not say 
The wherefore of my sudden whim. " 

Here Archibald looked at Eusta- 
Cia, and Eustacia looked at him. 

"Because, " continued she, " my head — " 
I never knew Eustacia 's fate, 

I never knew what 'Stacia said. 
(Continued on page 5#.) 



87 



Popular Ballad t u Never Forget You* 

Patents " 

A young man once was sitting 

Within a swell cafe, 
The music it was playing sweet — 

The people was quite gay. 
But he alone was silent, 

A tear was in his eye — 
A waitress she stepped up to him, and 

Asked him gently why. 

(Change to Minor.) 

He turned to her in sorrow and 

hX, first he spoke no word, 
But soon he spoke unto her, for 

She was an honest girl. 
He rose up from the table 

In that elegant cafe, 
And in a voice replete with tears 

To her he then did say; 

CHORUS 

Never forget your father, 
Think all he done for you; 

A mother is a boy's best friend, 
So loving, kind, and true, 



" Never Forget Your Parents n 

If it were not for them, I'm sure 

I might be quite forlorn; 
And if your parents had not have lived 

You would not have been born. 

A hush fell on the laughing throng, 

It made them feel quite bad, 
For most of them was people, and 

Some parents they had had. 
Both men and ladies did shed tears. 

The music it did cease. 
For all knew he had spoke the truth 

By looking at his face. 

(Change to Minor.) 

The waitress she wept bitterly 

And others was in tears 
It made them think of the old home 

They had not saw in years. 
And while their hearts was heavy and 

Their eyes they was quite red. 
This brave and honest boy again 

To them these words he said: 

CHORUS 

Never forget, etc. 



Ballade to a Lady 

(To Annabelle.) 

Pipe to the tip I'm handing, Kid; 

Get jerry to the salve I throw; 
Just paste it in your merrywid 

While I pull out the tremolo. 

This stuff ain't any paper snow — 
I never was a bull con gee — 

Wise up to this and sing it slow: 
You make an awful splash with me. 

My line of bunk is like to skid; 

(The subject is so smooth — get joe?) 
My fountain pen's an invalid; 

I can't dope words like L. Defoe 

Puts in describing up a show, 
But, kiddo, you have put the bee 

On father, surest thing you know. 
You make an awful splash with me. 

Yop, I'm your little katydid; 

Just listen to my chirp of woe; 
And now I've made my little bid — 

You get it? Follow me? Right-O! 

If I could shoot like Eddie Poe, 
I guess that you'd be h-e-p, 

But here's the bet, now cop it, bo, 
You make an awful splash with me. 

90 



Ballade to a Lady- 



Well, this is where the stuff I stow, 
According to old Francois V; 

But — once again before I blow — 
You make an awful splash with me. 



91 



To a Thesatttus 

O precious codes, volume, tome, 
Book, writing, compilation, work 

Attend the while I pen a pome, 
A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk. 

For I would pen, engross, indite, 
Transcribe, set forth, compose, address, 

Record, submit — yea, even write 
An ode, an elegy to bless — 

To bless, set store by, celebrate, 
Approve, esteem, endow with soul, 

Commend, acclaim, appreciate, 
Immortalize, laud, praise, extol. 

Thy merit, goodness, value, worth, 

Expedience, utility — 
manna, honey, salt of earth, 

I sing, I chant, I worship thee! 

How could I manage, live, exist, 
Obtain, produce, be real, prevail, 

Be present in the flesh, subsist, 
Have place, become, breathe or inhale, 

92 



To a Thesaurus 

Without thy help, recruit, support, 

Opitulation, furtherance, 
Assistance, rescue, aid, resort, 

Favour, sustention and advance? 

Ala Alack! and well-a-day! 

My case would then be dour and sad, 
Likewise distressing, dismal, gray, 

Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad. 



Though I could keep this up all day, 

This lyric, elegiac, song, 
Meseems hath come the time to say 

Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long! J 



9S 



The Ancient Lays 

I cannot sing the old songs 
I sang long years ago, 

But I can always hear them 
At any vodevil show. 



94 



Effing: *» Company 

("If I have erred I err in company with Abraham 
Lincoln." — Theodore Roosevelt.) 

If e'er my rhyming be at fault, 
If e'er I chance to scribble dope, 

If that my metre ever halt, 
I err in company with Pope. 

An that my grammar go awry, 
An that my English be askew, 

Sooth, I can prove an alibi — 
The Bard of Avon did it, too. 

If often toward the bottled grape 
My errant fancy fondly turns, 

Remember, jeering jackanape, 
I err in company with Burns. 

If now and then I sigh " Mine own ! " 
Unto another's wedded wife, 

Remember I am not alone — 
Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life? 

If frequently I fret and fume, 
And absolutely will not smile, 

I err in company with Hume, 
Old Socrates and T. Carlyle. 
95 



Tobogganning on Parnassus 

If e'er I fail in etiquette, 

And foozle on The Proper Stuff 
Regarding manners, don't forget 

A. Tennyson's were pretty tough. 

Eke if I err upon the side 
Of talking overmuch of Me, 

I err, it cannot be denied, 
In most illustrious company. 



96 



The Limit 

While I hold as superficial him who has his 
young initial 
Neatly graven on his Turkish cigarette, 
Such a bit of affectation I can view with toler- 
ation, 
Such a folly I forgive and I forget. 
Him who rocks the little boat, or him who rides 
the cyclemotor 
I dislike a little more than just enough; 
But you might as well be knowing that the 
guy who gets me going 
Is the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff. 

Now I've builded many a verse on that 
extremely stylish person 
Who insists upon the hat of emerald hue; 
I have made a lot of fun of things that honestly 
were none of 
My blanked business — and I knew that 
it was true. 
At the shameless subway smoker I have been 

a ceaseless joker 

For that nuisance daily gets me in a huff — 
But the one that makes me maddest is that 
pestilential faddist 
Who is carrying his kerchief in his cuff. 

97 



Tobogganning on Parnassus * 

I'm a passive, harmless hater of the vari- 
coloured gaiter 
That the men of the Rialto will affect; 
Of the loud and sassy clother, I'm a quiet, 
modest loather, 
And to comic section weskits I object. 
But, as I have intimated, hinted, innueridoed 
stated, 
Of the things that I believe are awful stuff, 
Nothing starts my indignation like the silly 
affectation 
Of the man who wears his kerchief in his 

cuff 

E-nough! 
Of the man who wears his kerchief in his 
cuff. 



98 



Chotus for Mixed Voices 

(Being a stenographic report of how it sounds from 
the piazza when a dozen boat loads go^out on the lake 
of a summer evening.) 

How can I bear to good old Yale the shades 
of Upidee 

That's where my heart is weep no more in 
sunny Tennessee 

How dear to heart grows weary far from mea- 
dow grass is blue 

Above Cayuga's waters we will sing I'm strong 
for you. 



A Spanish cava fare thee well and every- 
thing so fine 

That's where you get your old black Joe my 
darling Clementine 

The old folks would enjoy it on the road to 
Mandalay 

'Twas from Aunt Dinah's polly-wolly-woodle 
all the day. 



I hear those good night ladies much obliged 
because we're here 
99 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Afraid to go home in the with a good song 

ringing clear 
Just tell them that fair Harvard old Nassau 

is shining bright 
How can I bear to grand old rag we roll along 

good night! 



100 



The Translated Way 

(Being a "lyric" translation of Heine's "Du Bist 
Wie Eine Blume," as it is usually done.) 

Thou ar. like to a Flower, 
So pure and clean thou art; 

I view thee and much Sadness 
Steals to me in the Heart. 

To me it seems my Hands I 
Should now impose on your 

Head, praying God to keep you 
So fine and clean and pure. 



101 



"And Yet It Is A Gentle Aft!" 

(Parody is a genre frowned upon by your professors 
of literature . . . And yet it is a gentle art — 
"The Point of View" in May Scribner's.) 

A sweet disorder in the verse 

That never looks behind 
Shall profit not who steals my purse, 

Let joy be unconfined! 

How vainly men themselves amaze! 

The stars began to blink, 
An art that there were few to praise, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

O sleep, it is a blessed thing 

Which I must ne'er enjoy! 
There never was a fairer spring 

Than when I was a boy. 

One fond embrace and then we part! 

Good-by, my lover, good-by! 
And yet it is a gentle art, 

Which nobody can deny. 



102 



Occasionally 

Now and then there's a couple whose con- 
jugal life 
Is happy as happy can be; 
Now and then there's a man who believes that 
his wife 
Is the One Unsurpassable She; 
There are doubtless in England a great many 
folks 
Whose humour is airy and sage; 
But there never is one in American jokes 
Or on the American stage 

Now and then there's an auto that doesn't 
break down, 

Or an angler who catches some fish; 
Now and then there's a pretty society gown 

Or a girl that breaks never a dish; 
There is haply a Croesus who isn't a hoax. 

Or a jest that's not hoary with age; 
But there never is one in American jokes 

Or on the American stage. 

Now and then there's a poet with closely 
cropped hair, 
Or a sporting man quiet in dress; 
103 



Tobogganing: on Parnassus 

Now and then there's a lady from Boston 
who's fair, 
Now and then there's a fetterless press; 
Now and then there's a laugh that a jester 
may coax, 

A librettist may put on his page 

But they're terribly rare in American jokes, 
And — oh, the American stage! 



104 



Jim and Bill 

Bill Jones was cynical and sad; 

He thought sincerity was rare; 

Most people, Bill believed, were bad 

And few were fair. 

He said that cheating was the rule; 
That nearly everything was fake; 
That nearly all, both knave and fool, 
Were on the make. 

Jim Brown was cheerful as the sun; 

He thought the world a lovely place, 
Exhibiting to every one 
A smiling face. 

He thought that every man was fair; 

He had no cause to sob or sigh; 
He said that everything was square 
As any die. 

Dear reader, would you rather be 

Like Jim, not crediting the ill, 
Joyous in your serenity, 

Or right, like Bill? 
105 



When Nobody Listens 

At not at all infrequent spells 

I hear — and so do you — 
The tales that everybody tells 

And no one listens to. 

"You talk about excitement. Well 

Last summer, up at Silver Dell, 

Jim Brown and I took a canoe 

And paddled out a mile or two. 

When we left shore the sun was out — 

Serenest day, beyond a doubt, 

I ever saw. When suddenly 

It thunders, and a heavy sea 

Comes up. 'I'm goin' to jump,' says Jim. 

He jumps. I don't know how to swim, 

And I was scared . . ." 

"You ought to see 
My kid. He's great! He isn't three. 
But smart? Last night his mother said, 
As she was putting him to bed, 
' Tom, are you sleepy? ' Well, the kid — 
What d'ye think he up and did? 
Laugh? Honestly, we nearly died? 
He said: ..." 

106 



"When Nobody Listens 

"Last week I had a ride 
As was a ride! We took my car 
And ran her over night so far 
We had to stop. Just as we came 
To this side of North Burlingame, 
We tore a shoe; the left front wheel 
Got loose and ... " 



"Did you ever feel 
That dogs were human? Well, there's Bruce, 
My collie — brighter than the deuce! 
Just talk in ordinary tones — 
A joke, he barks, speak sad, he moans, 
The other day I said to him, 
'Here, Bruce, take this to Uncle Jim/ 
And gave . . . " 



"We've really got the best 
And cheapest flat in town. On West 
Two-Forty-Third Street. That ain't far - 
The subway, then the Yonkers car — 
An hour, perhaps a little more. 
I leave the house at 7.04 — 
I'm in the office every day 
At nine o'clock. Six rooms are all 
We have, if you don't count the hall — 
Though it is bigger far than most 
The rooms I've seen. I hate to boast 
About my flat; but ... " 
107 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

"Say, I've got 
The greatest, newest, finest plot — 
Dramatic, humorous, and fresh — 
And, though I'm not in the profesh, 
I'll back this little play of mine 
Against Pinero, Fitch, or Klein. 
Sure fire! A knockout! It can't miss! 
The plot of it begins like this: 
The present time — that's what they Ve got 
To have — and then a modern plot. 
Jack Hammond, hero, loves a girl: 
Extremely jealous of an earl. 
The earl, however ... " 

Why contin- 
ue types that flourish adinfln? 

O tuneless chimes! worn-out bells! 

I hear — and so do you — 
The tales that everybody tells 

But no one listens to. 



108 



Office Mottoes 

Motto heartening, inspiring, 

Framed above my pretty *desk, 

Never Shelley, Keats, or Byring* 
Penned a phrase so picturesque! 

But in me no inspiration 
Rides my low and prosy brow — 

All I think of is vacation 

When I see that lucubration: 



DO IT NOW 



When I see another sentence 
Framed upon a brother's wall, 

Resolution and repentance 
Do not flood o'er me at all 

As I read that nugatory 
Counsel written years ago, 

Only when one comes to borry* 

Do I heed that ancient story: 



TELL HIM NO 



•Entered under the Pure License of 1906. 
109 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Mottoes flat and mottoes silly, 

Proverbs void of point or wit, 
"KEEP A-PLUGGIN' WHEN IT'S HILLY! " 

"LIFE'S A TIGER: CONQUER IT!" 
Office mottoes make me weary 

And of all the bromide bunch 
There is only one I seri- 
Ously like, and that's the cheery: 



GONE TO LUNCH 



no 



Metaphysics 

A man morose and dull and sad — 
Go ask him why he feels so bad. 
Behold! He answers it is drink 
That put his nerves upon the blink. 

Another man whose smile and jest 
Disclose a nature of the best — 
What keeps his heart and spirit up? 
Again we learn it is the cup. 

The moral to this little bit 
Is anything you make of it. 
Such recondite philosophy 
Is far away too much for me. 



1U 



Heads and Tails 

If a single man is studious and quiet, people 
say- 
He is grouchy, he is old before his time; 
If he's frivolous and flippant, if he treads the 
primrose way, 
Then they mark him for a wild career of 
crime* 



If a man asserts that So-and-So is beautiful 
or sweet, 
He is daffy on the proposition, Girl; 
If he's weary in the evening and he keeps 
his subway seat, 
He's immediately branded as a churl. 



If he buys a friend a rickey not for any special 
cause, 
He is captain of the lush-and-spendthrift 
squad; 
If, before he spends a million, he will think a 
bit and pause, 
There's a popular impression he's a wad. 
112 



fobogganning on Parnassus 

If a man attends to business and looks to 
every chance, 
He is mercenary, money-mad, and coarse; 
If he thinks of art and letters more than 
personal finance, 
He is lacking in ambition and in force. 

If a man but bats his consort oh-so-gently 
on the head, 
If he throttles her a little round the neck, 
He's a brute; if he's considerately conjugal 
instead, 
Everybody calls him Mr. Henry Peck. 

Lowers Scylla — frowns Charybdis — and the 

bark is like to sink — 

This the symbolistic moral of my rhyme — 

If Opinion trims your sails and if you care 

what people think 

You will have a most unhappy sort of time. 



113 



An Election Night Pantoum 

Gaze at the good-natured crowd, 
List to the noise and the rattle! 

Heavens ! that woman is loud — 
Loud as the din of a battle. 

List to the noise and the rattle! 

Hark to the honk of the horn 
Loud as the din of a battle! 

There! My new overcoat's torn! 

Hark to the honk of the horn ! 

Cut out that throwing confetti! 
There! My new overcoat's torn — 

Looks like a shred of spaghetti. 

Cut out that throwing confetti! 

Look at the gentleman, stewed; 
Looks like a shred of spaghetti — 

Don't get so terribly rude! 

Look at the gentleman, stewed! 

Look at the glare of the rocket! 
Don't get so terribly rude, 

Keep your hand out of my pocket! 

114 



An Election Nigfht Pantoum 

Look at the glare of the rocket! 

Take that thing out of my face! 
Keep your hand out of my pocket! 

This is a shame and disgrace. 

Take that thing out of my face! 

Curse you! Be decent to ladies! 
This is a shame and disgrace, 

Worse than traditions of Hades. 

Curse you! Be decent to ladies! 

(Heavens! that woman is loud.) 
Worse than traditions of Hades 

Gaze at the "good-natured" crowd! 



115 



I Cannot Pay That Pf emium 

Beside a frugal table, though spotless clean 

and white, 
A loving couple they did sit and all seemed 

pleasant, quite; 
They did not have no servant the things 

away to take, 
For he was but a broker who much money 

did not make. 

(Key changes to minor.) 

He lit a fifty-cent cigar and then his wife did 

say: 
"Your life insurance it will lapse if it you 

do not pay." 
He turned from her in sorrow, for breaking 

was his heart, 
And in a mezzo barytone to her did say, in 

part: 

chorus: 

"I cannot pay that premium, I'll have to let 

it go; ". 
It fills me with remorse and sorrow, not to 

mention woe. 

116 



I Cannot Pay that Premium 

Though I'm quite strong and healthy, and 

will outlive you, perhaps, 
I cannot pay that premium; I'll have to let 

it lapse." 

The wife she naught did answer, for it cut her 

to the quick; 
She washed the dishes, filled the lamp, and 

likewise trimmed the wick; 
She took in washing the next day and played 

bridge whist all night, 
Until she had enough to pay her husband's 

premium, quite. 

(Key changes to minor) 

The husband he was thrown next day from 

his au-to-mo-bile, 
And although rather lonesome it did make 

his widow feel, 
It made her glad to know that she had paid 

that prem-i-um, 
And oftentimes in after years these words 

she'd softly hum: 

chorus: 
"I cannot pay that premium," etc. 



117 



Three Authors 

Prolific authors, noble three, 
I do my derby off to ye. 

Selected, dear old chap, who knows 
The quantity of verse and prose 
That you have signed in all these years! 
You've dulled how many thousand shears! 
You've filled, at a tremendous rate, 
A million miles of " boiler plate" — 
A wreath of laurel for your brow! 
A stirrup-cup to you — here's how ! 

And you, dear Ibid. Ah, you wrote 
Too many things for me to quote, 
Though Bartlett, of quotation fame, 
Plays up your unpoetic name 
More than he did to Avon's bard. 
Your stuff's on every page, old pard. 
Bouquets to you the writer flings; 
You wrote a lot of dandy things. 

And you, O last, O greatest one, 
A word with you, and I have done. 
You, dear Exchange, that ever floats 
Around with verses, anecdotes, 
118 



Three Authors 

And jokes. Oh, what a lot you sign 
(Quite frequently a thing of mine). 
Why, it would not be very strange 
If I should see this signed — Exchange. 

favourite authors, wondrous three, 

1 do my derby off to ye! 



119 



To Quotation 

(Caused by "The Ethics of Misquotation" in the 
November Atlantic Monthly.) 

Quotation! Brother to the Arts, assister 

to the Muse! 
When Bartlett from his study height unfurled 

thine heaven-born hues, 
The quotes were here, the quotes were there, 

the quotes were all around, 
For Bartlett like a poultice came to blow the 

heels of sound. 

Pernicious habit ! One becomes a worse than 

senseless block, 
A bard that no one dares to praise and fewer 

care to knock; 
A sentence by a mossy stone, of quaint and 

curious lore, 
An apt quotation is to one and it is nothing 

more. 

Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the gentle 

rain from heaven, 
Thy brow is wet with honest sweat and the 

stars on thy head are seven. 
120 



To Quotation 

Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly, 

he who runs may read, 
But he who niches from me Bartlett leaves 

me poor indeed. 

I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest 

in peace — 
From Afric's funny fountains to the happy 

Isles of Greece. 
Quotation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy 

sans let or end 
With me abide, O handy guide, philosopher, 

and friend. 



121 



Melodrama 
R 

If you want a receipt for a melodramatical, 

Thrillingly thundery, popular show, 
Take an old father, unyielding, emphatical, 

Driving his daughter out into the snow; 
The love of a hero, courageous and Hacketty; 

Hate of a villain in evening clothes; 
Comic relief that is Irish and racketty; 

Schemes of a villainess muttering oaths; 
The bank and the safe and the will and the 
forgery — 

All of them built on traditional norms — 
Villainess dark and Lucrezia Borgery 

Helping the villain until she reforms; 
The old mill at midnight, a rapid delivery; 
Violin music, all scary and shivery; 
Plot that is devilish, awful, nefarious; 
Heroine frightened, her plight is precarious; 
Bingo! — the rescue! — the movement goes 

snappily — 
Exit the villain and all endeth happily ! 

Take of these elements any you care about, 
Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout; 
Put in the powder and leave out the grammar, 
And the certain result is a swell melodrammer. 

122 



A Foot Excuse, But Out Own 



(Why don't you ever write any child poetry? 
— A Mother.) 



My right-hand neighbour hath a child, 
A pretty child of five or six, 

Not more than other children wild, 
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks — 

At five he rises, shine or rain, 

And noisily plays "fire" or "train." 

Likewise a girl, cetatis eight, 

He hath. Each morning, as a rule, 
Proudly my neighbour will relate 

How bright Mathilda is at school. 
My ardour, less than half of mild, 
Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!" 

All through the vernal afternoon 
My other neighbour's children skate 

A wild Bacchantic rigadoon 
On rollers; nor does it abate 

Till dark; and then his babies cry 

What time I fain would versify. 

1&5 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Did I but set myself to sing 

A children's song, I'd stand revealed 
A bard that did the infant thing 

As well as Riley or 'Gene Field. 
I could write famous Children Stuff, 
If they'd keep quiet long enough. 



124 



Monotonous Variety 

(All of them from two stories in a single magazine.) 

She " greeted" and he "volunteered"; 

She "giggled"; he "asserted"; 
She "queried" and he "lightly veered"; 

She "drawled" and he "averted"; 
She "scoffed," she "laughed" and he 

"averred"; 
He "mumbled," "parried," and "demurred." 

She "languidly responded"; he 

' ' Incautiously assented ' ' ; 
Doretta "proffered lazily"; 

Will "speedily invented"; 
She "parried," "whispered," "bade," and 

"mused"; 
He "urged," "acknowledged," and "refused." 

She "softly added"; "she alleged"; 

He "consciously invited"; 
She "then corrected"; William "hedged"; 

She "prettily recited"; 
She "nodded," "stormed," and "acquiesced" ; 
He "promised," "hastened," and "confessed." 

125 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

Doretta "chided"; "cautioned" Will; 

She "voiced" and he "defended"; 
She "vouchsafed"; he "continued still"; 

She "sneered" and he "amended"; 
She "smiled," she "twitted," and she "dared" 
He "scorned," "exclaimed," "pronounced," 
and "flared." 



He "waived," "believed," "explained," and 
"tried"; 
"Commented" she; he "muttered"; 
She "blushed," she "dimpled," and she 
"sighed"; 
He "ventured" and he "stuttered"; 
She "spoke," "suggested," and "pursued"; 
He "pleaded," "pouted," "called," and 
"viewed." 



O synonymble writers, ye 

Whose work is so high-pricey. 

Think ye not that variety 
May haply be too spicy? 

Meseems that in an elder day 

They had a thing or two to say. 



126 



The Amateur Botanist 

A primrose by a river's brim 
Primula vulgaris was to him, 

And it was nothing more; 
A pansy, delicately reared, 
Viola tricolor appeared 

In true botanic lore. 

That which a pink the layman deems 
Dianthus caryophyllus seems 

To any flower-fan; or 
A sunflower, in that talk of his, 
Annuus helianthus is, 

And it is nothing more. 



127 



A Word for It 

" Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not. 

I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle, 

Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, 
Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot, 
An so it made my Pegasus to trot 

His morning lap what time he heard the bell; 

An so it made the poem stuff to jell — 
To mix a met. — an so it boil'd the pot. 

Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit! 
I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats. 
" Scorn? " Nay, I love thy fine symmetric 
grace. 
In sonnets one knows always where to quit, 
Unlike in other poems where one cheats 
And strings it out to fill the yawning 
space. 



128 



The Poem Speaks 

(Cut this out in either case.) 

Poet, ere you write me, 
Stem the flowing ink; 

Or that you indite me 
Pause upon the brink. 



Strummer of the lyre 
Maker of the tune, 

Give me a desire — 
Bless me with a boon. 



Let me be a rondeau 
With a sweet refrain, 

Or an aliquando 
Sonnet to the rain; 



Let me be a lyric 
Tenuous as air, 

Or an a la Viereck 
Passion song to hair; 

129 



Tobogganning on Parnassus 

Ballad, epic, quatrain, 
Couplet — ay, a line — 

"Let it rain or not rain, 
Let it storm or shine." 

Shape me as you list to, 

Glorious or small; 
Put a comic twist to 

Anything at all. 

Only give me fame that 

Never, never dies, 
Christen me a name that 

Reaches to the skies. 

This is my ambition: 
Not the greatest rhyme, 

Not the first position 
On the page of time — 

But, O poet, steep me, 
Till, with gum and hooks, 

Womenfolk will keep me 
In their pocket-books J 



130 



"Bedbooks" 

(There is said to be a steady demand for " bedbooks " 
in England. There are readers who find in Gibbon a 
sedative for tired nerves; there are others who enjoy 
Trollope's quiet humour. Some people find in Henry 
James's tangled syntax the restful diversion they seek, 
and others enjoy Mr. Howells's unexciting realism. 
— The Sun.) 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, 

Lulled by the waves of dreamy diction, 
Like that appearing in the best 
Of modern fiction! 

When sleeplessness the Briton claims, 

And hits him with her wakeful wallop, 
He goes to Gibbon or to James, 
Or maybe Trollope. 

No paltry limit, such as those 

The craving-slumber Yankee curses — 
He has a wealth of poppy prose 
And opiate verses. 

A grain of — ought I mention names 

And say whence sleep may be inspired? 
Is it the thing to say of James, 

"He makes me tired?" 
131 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

To say "a dose of Phillips, or 

A capsule of Sinclair or Brady, 
Is just the thing to make me snore? " 
Oh, lackadaydee! 



Nay! It were churlish to review 

And specify by marked attention 
Our bedbooks. They are far too nu- 
Merous to mention. 



132 



A New York Child's Garden of Verses 

(With the usual.) 



In winter I get up at night, 
And dress by an electric light. 
In summer, autumn, ay, and spring, 
I have to do the self-same thing. 

I have to go to bed and hear 
Pianos pounding in my ear, 
And hear the janitor cavort 
With garbage cans within the court. 

And does it not seem hard to you 
That I should have these things to do? 
Is it not hard for us Manhat- 
Tan children in a stuffy flat? 

II 

It is very nice to think 
The world is full of food and drink; 
But, oh, my father says to me 
They cost all of his salaree. 

133 



Tobogganing on Parnassus 

in 

When I am grown to man's estate 
I shall be very proud and great; 
E'en now I have no reverence, 
'Cause I read comic supplements. 



IV 



New York is so full of a number of kids 
I'm sure pretty soon we shall be invalids. 



A child should always say what's true, 
And speak when he is spoken to; 
And then, when manhood's age he strikes, 
He may be boorish as he likes. 



134 



Downward, Come Downward 

(With apologies to the estate of Elizabeth Akers Allen.) 

Downward, come downward, O Cost in your 

flight, 
Soaring like Paulhan or W. Wright! 
Prices, come down from the limitless sky, 
Down to the reach of the Ultimate Guy. 
Once you were not quite so far from the 

ground; 
Once we had lamb chops at ioc. a pound. 
Give us the days ere the cost took a leap, 
When things were cheap, mother, when they 

were cheap. 

Backward, flow backward, O Living's Ad- 
vance, 
Back from the purlieus of Airy Romance! 
Back to the days when a porterhouse steak 
Didn't cost half of what people could make! 
Back to the days when a regular egg 
Didn't drive people to borrow and beg! 
Oh, for the days when the hog and the sheep 
Were not as diamonds — when they were 
cheap. 

135 



Speaking: of Hunting 

When a button rolls under the bureau 

The search is a woeful affair; 
And the humorous weekly describes it but 
meekly 

In saying the hunter will swear. 
But what is that limited anger? 

The impotent rage of a cub! 
I only grow what you could really call hot 

When the soap slips under the tub. 

I've sought through a time-table's mazes, 

And sworn at the men who devise 
That scare and delusion of hopeless confusion, 

That intricate bundle of lies. 
But never a hunt that was harder, 

Be you or professor or dub, 
Than that ill-fated jest — I refer to the 
quest — 

When the soap falls back of the tub 

My paste pot escapes almost daily; 

My scissors I never can find; 
And I am the rotter who loses a blotter 

More often than if he were blind. 

136 



Speaking of Hunting 

But sooner a myriad searches 
Than go to the worry and troub. 

That one little cake saponaceous can make 
When the soap slips under the tub — 

Blank! Blank! 
When the soap slips under the tub. 



137' 



The F!at-H«nte*'s Way 

We don't get any too much light; 

It's pretty noisy, too, at that; 
The folks next door stay up all night; 

There's but one closet in the flat; 
The rent we pay is far from low; 

Our flat is small and in the rear; 
But we have looked around, and so 

We think we'll stay another year. 

Our dining-room is pretty dark; 

Our kitchen's hot and very small; 
The "view" we get of Central Park 

We really do not get at all. 
The ceiling cracks and crumbles down 

Upon me while I'm working here — 
But, after combing all the town, 

We think we'll stay another year. 

We are not "handy" to the sub; 

Our hall-boy service is a joke; 
Our janitor's a foreign dub 

Who never does a thing but smoke 
Our landlord says he will not cut 

A cent from rent already dear; 
And so we sought for better — but 

We think we'll stay another year. 

138 



Birds and Bards 

When Milton sang "O nightingale 

That on ytm gloomy spray," 
The sonneteer whom we revere 

Lauded that birdie's lay. 

While Keats's ode upon that bird 

Was limpid as the notes 
That, sweet and strong, were in the song 

Of Philomelian throats. 

And Bryant's "To a Water-fowl! " 

Had praise in every line, 
And every word about the bird 

Impinged on the divine. 

When Wordsworth did the skylark stuff, 

He praised the bird a few, 
And Shelley's ode sincerely showed 

He liked the skylark, too. 

O Poets, if ye had but dwelt 

Upon a Harlem block, 
Fain would I read your poems sweet 
Upon the sparrows' "Peet! Peet! Peet!" 

139 



A Wish 

(An Apartmental Ditty.) 

Mine be a flat beside the Hill; 

A vendor's cry shall soothe my ear* 
A landlord shall present his bill 

At least a dozen times a year. 

The tenor, oft, below my flat, 
Shall practise " Violets " and such; 

And in the area a cat 
Shall beat the band, the cars, and Dutch. 

Around the neighbourhood shall be 
About a hundred thousand kids; 

And, eke in that vicinitee, 
Ten pianolas without lids. 

And mornings, I suppose, by gosh, 
I'll be awakened prompt at seven, 

By ladies hanging up the wash 
Only a mile or so from heaven. 



140 



A Wish 

The sparrows that have built their nest 
Ten feet from where one takes one's rest, 
And 'gin their merry, blithesome song 
Each morning — quenchless, clear and strong 
Promptly at four o'clock. 



141 



The Monument of Q. H. F. 



AD MELPOMENEN 
Horace: Book III, Ode 30. 

" Exegi monumentum aere perennius. 
Regalique situ pyramidum altnis." 

Look you, the monument I have erected 
High as the pyramids, royal, sublime, 

During as brass — - it shall not be affected 
E'en by the elements coupled with Time. 

Part of me, most of me never shall perish; 

I shall be free from Oblivion's curse; 
Mine is a name that the future will cherish— 

I shall be known by my excellent verse. 

I shall be famous all over this nation 
Centuries after myself shall have died; 

People will point to my versification — 
I, who was born on the Lower East Side ! 

Come, then, Melpomene, why not admit me? 

I want a wreath that is Delphic and green, 
Seven, I think, is the size that will fit me — 

Slip me some laurel to wear on my bean. 

142 



OCT 13 * 9,! 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



OCT 19 I9«? 



